by Emily Lowry
My heart melted like ice cream on a summer day. My legs must’ve melted too, because I missed the next step in the waltz and almost brought us both down.
But Mason caught me, adjusted our rhythm, and kept dancing like nothing had gone wrong.
Wow. My brother’s best friend, the hot quarterback who could make me laugh like no one else, and now he knew how to dance, too? It wasn’t possible for him to get better. But, while these things about Mason were amazing, none of them were what truly mattered. Mason could be terrible at sports and have two left feet and I would still be head over heels for him. For who he was.
Mason was smart, funny, warm, caring, and kind. And I didn’t want anyone but him.
I still couldn’t find the words I wanted, so I just fell into his eyes and continued to dance.
“And there’s one other thing,” Mason said.
I held my breath.
He stared deeply into my eyes. “I’m falling in love with you.”
If words were difficult to come by before, they were impossible now. But maybe I didn’t need words to express how I felt. I did the only thing I could think of: I glanced at his lips, then back at his eyes.
Mason brushed the hair from my face, and we stopped dancing. He gently pulled my chin up towards him.
Warmth rushed over my body, and my arms and legs tingled with anticipation. I felt his body against mine, my chest against his. He smelled clean and warm, aftershave mingling with sea salt. In that moment, all I wanted was him.
His lips met mine.
Soft.
Confident.
Perfect.
He could hold my body against his forever and it still wouldn’t be long enough.
I looped my arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately. Then I pulled back ever so slightly, and with our noses still touching, I whispered. “I’m in love with you too.”
He kissed me again.
Then we pulled apart.
“Thank you for the unicorn,” I said, smiling. “I love it.”
“You should’ve seen me trying to get the recording right. Had a heck of a time.” Mason laughed. Then he gestured to the picnic blanket. “I’ve prepared a small Homecoming feast for us. Complete with—”
He grabbed two ridiculous plastic crowns from the picnic blanket. He set one on my head.
I took the second crown and placed it on his head. “We’re practically royalty now. Does this mean we get to feast like royalty, too?”
“You know it,” Mason said. He unveiled the meal. We had the same burgers and fries we had at the Treehouse Café. There were also several bowls of snacks — popcorn and candy — from the night of our impromptu sleepover. And in the cooler? Churro sundaes.
“The Treehouse Café’s expanding,” I said. “And I commend you on your food choices.”
He held my hand as I sat. “Do you recognize anything else?”
I looked at the food and the blanket. But there was nothing I recognized. I frowned. “I’m missing something?”
He tapped my plate.
It was a regular, white plate, except it was creased with random lines of gold. I picked it up to examine it, tracing my fingers along the sparkling lines.
“They’re also from the Treehouse Café,” Mason said. “I found a place that could put them back together.”
I looked at his plate. Sure enough, there was only a single gold line on it from where it had split in half from his tremendously awkward throw. “Why?”
“Because it was the best date of my life,” Mason said. “And when you have a date that spectacular, you need to keep something to remember it.”
I clutched the plate to my chest. “I’m keeping one.”
He grinned. “That was the plan.”
We ate, we chatted, we laughed, we danced, and yes, we kissed. I couldn’t believe how anyone could get as lucky as me. All of my time spent admiring boys from afar, and the first boy I fell for, the first boy I truly loved, was the one who was closest to me. My brother’s best friend.
After everything we’d been through and experienced together, there was only one boy for me.
In the end, it had to be Mason.
50
Zoe
Mason and I were only two weeks into our official relationship, but two weeks of being Mason’s — official — girlfriend were amazing. We ate our lunches together in the cafeteria, and we continued to work on our Life Skills project. Sometimes, Mason got us out of class. And sometimes, when we were out of class, we actually worked on our Life Skills project.
The end of football season was still a few weeks away, but Mason and I decided that when it was over, we’d sign up for a swing dance class on High Street. Mason’s idea, not mine. He’d fully accepted the dancer inside of himself, and even though the guys on the football team started calling him “Twinkle Toes,” he told me he thought the nickname was hilarious — and he kind of liked it. He said it was like naming a big dog “Fluffy.”
“You’re daydreaming again, aren’t you?” Nina asked.
Her voice snapped me back to reality. “Guilty,” I said.
It was Saturday morning, the morning of Halloween. Nina was in my kitchen sorting through a bowl of candy. “Since we’re too old to Trick or Treat, we should just take the candy we want now. Your mom always buys too much anyway.”
“I heard that,” Mom shouted from her office.
“What I mean to say is thank you!” Nina shouted back.
Mom laughed.
I laughed too. “Honestly, we’re both short enough that if we dressed in the right costumes, we could still get candy.”
“Not with him you can’t,” Nina said, pointing her thumb at Mason.
He held his hand over his heart and feigned hurt. “You could get candy with me. I’ll have you know that I’m barely more mature than a child.”
We both laughed.
Mason grinned. “And now this kid has to go get his costume ready.” He took off upstairs.
“Will you two be at High Street tonight?” Nina asked.
I was practically vibrating with excitement. “Not only will we be at the Haunting at High Street, we’re going to the dance studio to learn the Thriller dance first. Then, when the song hits on the speakers, we’re going to do it in the middle of the street. You should come.”
“I want to, but…” Nina examined a piece of candy, weighed it, then tossed it in her personal pile.
“But what?”
“I’m really happy you’re happy, Zoe. I am. Like, so very, very happy.” She sighed. “But I’m also jealous. You haven’t left me out or anything, I just wish I had a boyfriend that I could do all the cute coupley stuff with. You know?”
I knew exactly how she felt. Two months ago, I would’ve thought it was impossible for me to get a boyfriend. I squeezed my friend’s hand. “You’ll get there. Now that I know what I’m doing, maybe I can teach you a few tricks.”
“You better,” Nina said, grinning. “And you better do it soon. Christmas is right around the corner, and I would very much like to have someone to take me to all the Christmas Candy Canes that pop up around Beachbreak. If I don’t have a boyfriend by then, I might just have to fake it.”
I laughed. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
Nina tore open a caramel and popped it in her mouth. “Can you imagine? Me with a fake boyfriend?”
Just as she finished speaking, Tyler popped in the kitchen. Half of his body was wrapped in toilet paper and safety pins. He was trying, and failing, to be a cursed Egyptian mummy.
“You look ridiculous.” I told him.
“Wait ‘til you see your boyfriend.” He laughed. Boyfriend. It still felt strange hearing that word — especially out of my big brother’s mouth. But Tyler had been amazing about Mason and I getting together. He even told me if his little sister had to date anyone, he would prefer it to be someone he actually liked and respected. It made me even more thankful than usual to have a brother like him.
Tyler’
s eyes zeroed in on Nina’s pile of candy. He reached for a caramel.
She swatted his hand. “You’re too old for Halloween candy.”
“Dude, I’m literally one year older than you.”
“Which makes you one year too old for Halloween candy.” Nina said.
“But you’re taking all the best ones,” Tyler replied. “Those are literally all of my favorites.”
Nina shrugged. “What can I say? I have excellent taste. You can’t blame me for that.”
My brother stalked away. He stopped in the doorway, turned to us, and shook his fist comically.
“I’ll get you for this, Nina, if it’s the last thing I do.” He howled in a stupid, spooky voice.
She rolled her eyes and pelted him with a caramel.
51
Zoe
I rested my hand on Mason’s shoulder as we walked to High Street on Halloween night. Kids ran from house to house, screaming and laughing, collecting so much candy that their teeth would probably rot overnight. Not that we were any better — Mason and I had stuffed our costumes with as much candy as they could hold.
It felt like the night had limitless possibilities.
I also felt something else.
Contentment.
Happiness.
When I was with Mason, it felt like nothing could go wrong. It felt like I fit perfectly into his life. With his arm around my shoulder, things just felt… right.
“I still can’t believe you pulled off our own private Homecoming,” I said. “You’re a genius.”
Mason blushed.
Like, he actually blushed.
“Oh my goodness.” I pointed at his cheeks. “Look at you. You’re turning red.”
“I am not,” he said, swatting my finger away. “It’s Halloween makeup.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not.” I grinned wickedly. “I made you blush! I made you blush! I made you—”
He silenced me with a kiss. When our lips finally broke apart, he was smiling.
I waited for my breath to return. “I hope you know you can’t just kiss me every time you want to get away with something.”
He winked. “We’ll see.”
I squeezed his hand, and we continued our trek towards High Street. “So. Ready to do some more dancing, Space Face?”
He returned my squeeze. “As long as you’re with me, Zoo, I’m ready for anything.”
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WANT MORE ZOE AND MASON?
Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the book!
If you liked It Had to be Mason, you’ll love this short story I wrote about Zoe and Mason’s Halloween date. It takes place shortly after the end of this book.
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Then, turn the page to read the first chapter of Chase Jones is my Fake Boyfriend, the first book in my exciting series — Rumors & Lies at Evermore High!
Chase Jones is my Fake Boyfriend: Chapter One
ABBY
If I had to sum up high school in one word, I’d pick electric.
It was the nervous energy flowing through your body as you prepared for the first day back. The spark when the cute boy smiles. The lightning bolt of a first kiss, the thunderstorm of falling in love, the rain-swept field that follows a breakup.
At least, that’s how a high school romance was supposed to feel.
Not that I would know. I could only imagine what everyone else’s high school experience must be like. You know, the jocks, the cheerleaders, the popular kids and homecoming queens and class clowns and student body presidents. Everyone. Well, everyone but me.
I’d held on to that energy, that electricity, all summer. But instead of going out and having all the clichéd high school experiences the rest of my grade were having before their junior year, I’d poured my entire summer into a single story for our school newspaper, The Panther Pinnacle. It was a perfect piece of investigative journalism. The kind of hard-hitting exposé my heroes — Minna Lewinson and Diane Sawyer — would be proud of.
I put the story in a binder and snapped the clips closed. The paper was perfect. It had to be perfect. I was bringing it to my journalism prof first thing this morning, as proof that I had what it took to be the investigative reporter for The Pinnacle this year. I had a perfect plan: I’d hold that position for my junior year, take over as lead editor in my senior year, then after that? NYU. Just like my mom.
My chosen outfit for my first day back at school was already hanging on the door, freshly washed and neatly ironed. I had picked it out weeks ago. I wanted something that would convey that I was professional, yet approachable. Intellectual, yet worldly. Not that my closet had offered too much to convey all that, and Dad had been too stingy to lend me fifty bucks to buy something new. All in all, I was happy with the plaid, pleated skirt, button-down shirt and loafers I picked out for today’s occasion. I added a tight ponytail and my reading glasses, and voila! — I nailed it. Perfect female journalist with prime lead editor potential.
I was ready for the first day of my junior year.
Evermore High was a sprawling campus of brick buildings, athletic fields, flower gardens, fountains, and stunning views of the Rocky Mountains. It was a hive of activity, home to just over two thousand students.
It was a fairy tale place — but by fairy tale I’m talking Brothers Grimm, not Disney. Cliques reigned over their subjects, rewarding and punishing them with a sense of poetic justice. Rumors spread like a summer fire over a cornfield, and truth? Truth was relative.
Honestly, I expected better from the kids of our large Denver suburb. Colorado was meant to be a progressive place… but Evermore was like every bad high school movie: finding your clique was your lifeline for a social life.
Nobody at school even read the Pinnacle, the paper I loved so much and worked so hard on. They didn’t need to. Anything you wanted to know could be found on the school’s notorious — and conveniently anonymous — gossip app, Click.
I had never been featured on Click, and I knew all too well I never would be. I was one of the Evermore cliqueless — by choice, as I reminded my dad every time he asked why I didn’t go out with friends more. I was happy being invisible, coasting through the hallways unnoticed, gathering the grades and achievements I needed to guarantee I got into NYU. I didn’t want, need, or desire to be at the center of a school scandal. I would leave that to the popular kids, thank you very much.
I hurried through the throngs of students. The seniors laughed loudly to draw attention, the guys fist bumping each other while the girls smoothed their hair, hoping someone would notice the new styles they got over the summer. A whole new year of possibilities lay ahead. The freshmen congregated in tight packs, their voices hoarse whispers.
And me?
I continued to be invisible, the way a good journalist should be. Maybe that’s why I was so obsessed with journalism — I didn’t want to be part of the rumors, but I wanted to know about them. I treated my high school like I was reading it in a book instead of living it.
The school paper had its own office on the second floor of Building A, which was the Fine Arts Building. The door had textured glass, and when I opened it, the smell of coffee overpowered every other sense. We always had two coffee pots going — either brewing or burning, depending on whether the last one out had remembered to shut them off.
“Abig
ail Murrow! Welcome back.” The warm, friendly voice had a thin Nigerian accent and belonged to my favorite teacher, Mr. Adebayo. He was in his fifties and wore a crisp, white dress shirt. As the year went on, that shirt would accumulate coffee stains. By June, the shirt would be more brown than white.
A senior stood next to Mr. Adebayo, smiling at me.
My heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t just any senior.
Nicholas Applebee. His hair was casually combed to the side, and he wore thin glasses which framed his face perfectly. He had the charming smile of a morning newscaster. And he was this year’s lead editor of The Pinnacle.
I smiled back, keeping my lips closed so the butterflies didn’t escape from my stomach. I had worked with Nicholas on the Pinnacle since freshman year, and I still couldn’t get it together when he was around me. He was the weak spot in my perfect plan of keeping all of my thoughts and efforts focused on NYU.
He poured a cup of coffee and passed me the mug. “Abs! Just the person I was looking for.”
My heart lurched again. I suspected it would get quite the workout with the time I’d be spending with Nicholas.
“Great! I was looking for me too!” I stuttered. Uh, no, that wasn’t right. “You. I was looking for you.” I finished, my cheeks flaring.
I looked at him to see if he had noticed my stutter and blush, but he wasn’t looking at me, he was focused on the binder in my hand. “What’s that, Abby? A story? You can’t possibly have a story ready. We haven’t even gone over this semester’s assignments.”
I laughed, too loud and too long. I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not. Call my laughter a nervous reflex. I passed him the binder. “I did some digging over the summer on the nastiness that goes on behind school board elections. Hard-hitting stuff.”
